The Art of War
by Alipeeps
Summary: It was just a few short hours after General Riesen's funeral that David Whele made his power play for control of the city. AU (from c. ep 5 onwards). Michael!Whump.
1. Chapter 1

_This fic was inspired by Whele's attempts to blackmail Becca Thorn into reporting back on Michael's weaknesses, his suggestion that if they knew more about how Michael's body worked, they'd be better able to fight Gabriel and the other higher angels. In this fic, Whele takes that idea to its next logical step... whilst also, of course, seeking to turn the situation to his benefit._

_This fic was always going to be an AU where General Reisen dies suddenly, leaving Claire as Lady of the City, but given the events of episode 6, this diversion from canon is by default going to take place before the whole situation with Clementine arose and before William took matters into his own hands with his father._

* * *

_"The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting."_

It was just a few short hours after General Riesen's funeral that David Whele made his power play for control of the city. As political machinations went, it was a master stroke. In one fell swoop he removed a vital ally of House Reisen, eliminated the driving force behind the "Chosen One" fallacy, destabilised the senate, and created a threat to the city's security, all of which lead to a power vacuum into which he was only too ready to step. And the one stone with which he killed these four birds? Michael. Or rather, the absence of Michael.

* * *

"Ah, Michael. Thank you for coming." David Whele leaned back expansively, the rich leather of his office chair creaking under him. "I know how busy you are..."

The archangel's face was as impassive as usual as he interrupted, "You said you had important information about angel activity within the city?"

"Of course," Whele smiled. "Straight to business. Indeed. Are you sure I can't offer you a drink?" He waved his own glass of whiskey, ice cubes clinking gently against fine crystal, as one of his staff approached the archangel hesitantly, drinks tray in hand. Michael barely glanced at the man before turning his attention back to Whele.

"Consul..." The face was as impassive as ever but the voice betrayed a hint of irritation.

"No? Oh, well. My apologies. Just trying to be polite..." He grinned genially, his attitude relaxed but his gaze sharp.

The drinks waiter moved quickly, to give him his due, but not quickly enough...for his own safety. Whele thought he'd done a good job of holding the angel's attention but Michael reacted almost instantaneously as the waiter lunged forward and jabbed a syringe into the side of his neck. The drinks tray clattered noisily to the floor as Michael caught the man around the throat, half-turning to throw him clear across the room. The ugly crunch as the man hit the wall and slid limply to the ground suggested he wouldn't be getting up again but David had expected as much. Acceptable losses.

Michael was furious, his wings suddenly unfolding as he turned back to Whele, a palpable sense of threat in the air as he stalked forwards. "You dare...?" he fumed, the great span of his black wings rising up behind him, making the large room feel uncomfortably small.

David held his relaxed pose, leaning back in his chair, a slight smile hovering at his lips, though underneath he was tense, expectant. He was taking a hell of a chance here. If it didn't work...

But even as the thought crossed his mind, the archangel staggered and David's smile grew.

Watching Michael's face morph from anger to confusion was delightful. His wings beat once, the downdraft a cool rush against David's face, rustling and lifting the papers on his desk, as the angel fought for balance, staggered again, and dropped to one knee.

David let his chair tilt forward as he sat upright, placing his glass carefully on the desk, his eyes never leaving Michael's. The angel was sweating now, breathing heavily. "You..." His brow furrowed, unable to make sense of what was happening to him.

"Interesting, isn't it?" David observed calmly, his cool gaze taking careful note of the angel's reaction to the drug. "Archangel you may be - stronger than us, faster than us - but nonetheless here on earth you inhabit a physical body just like we do and are subject to the same laws of biology..."

The angel was shaking, struggling for balance, clearly unable to rise. His eyes looked glassy, unfocused, his eyelids beginning to droop. "What..." he gasped, "what have you...?"

"Oh, you'll be wondering what I dosed you with?" David smiled. "Remarkably effective, isn't it? Just a little something I had my scientists brew up using some blood samples taken during your recent hospital stay. Your blood chemistry is like nothing they've ever seen before, apparently, but eventually they came up with something they were fairly certain would take you down."

Michael's face darkened with a renewed anger and with a snarl he surged upwards, his wings whipping forward, taking David by surprise. He flinched back, his chair tilting back under his weight, as the tips of Michael's wings swept past inches from his chest, the sharp as steel edges slicing his desk lamp in two, stiff feathers brushing the contents of his desk onto the floor, paperwork sent fluttering. His whiskey glass hit the floor with a dull thud and rolled, trailing amber liquid onto the carpet.

But it was a last desperate play, a burst of energy that left the angel drained and helpless. His legs gave way under him and he fell to the floor, gasping for breath, his wings flapping weakly.

David licked his lips, his heart hammering in his chest, adrenalin still flooding his nervous system, and pushed deliberately to his feet. He walked slowly around the wide expanse of his desk, forcing himself to breathe evenly, to relax the tension in his shoulders, until he stood over the fallen angel, the tips of his polished shoes mere inches from Michael's face, making it clear that he was not afraid, that he was in control here.

The angel lay on his side, long legs splayed helplessly, his impressive wings stretched out behind him, limp and twitching. He was trembling, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps, but there was still determination in his glassy eyes as he looked up defiantly, meeting David's impassive gaze.

David watched calmly, Michael's gaze still locked on his, as the angel's breathing slowed and his eyes grew heavy. Michael kept eye contact as, with a last grimace of effort, his wings folded and twisted and, in that mysterious process which David had yet to understand, disappeared. And then the angel's eyes slid closed and his head lolled, tension draining from his body as he slipped into unconsciousness.

For a long moment David Whele didn't move. Then he reached out a perfectly polished shoe and, none too gently, nudged the unconscious angel. Nothing. He pursed his lips. He'd have preferred the wings out, given a choice, but no matter. He smiled. There were ways and means, he was sure.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt."_

Claire Riesen took a deep breath as she approached the doors to the council chamber. Her heels clicked on the marble floor, the sharp sound underscored by the soft tread of booted feet – her archangel corps escort, now a pretty much permanent feature. No more could she decide on a whim to ditch her protection squad for a carefree stroll around the marketplace. No more sneaking into the barracks to talk to Alex. That part of her life, that small liberty, had ended along with her father's life. She was now officially Lady of the City, sworn in only hours after her father's death.

She barely remembered the hurried ceremony, the hours and days following her father's sudden death a blur of grief and overwhelming responsibility. She'd done her best to shed her tears in private, putting on a confident face in public, conscious always of her father's lectures on the city's need for a strong leader. Appearances were everything. There were those among the senate who would panic without a confident hand to guide them and there were those, like David Whele, who would seek to turn the slightest hint of weakness to their advantage.

There had been so much to take in, so much to learn about the senate, about its individual members and their responsibilities, about how the day to day business of running the city took place. Her father had always planned a gradual transition of power, she knew, slowly involving her more and more in the senate's activities. But his heart attack had robbed them of that opportunity, denied them the necessary time for him to pass on all his knowledge, to mentor her as she learned the ropes.

Thrown in at the deep end, she had relied heavily on both Consul Becca Thorn and the reassuring presence of the archangel Michael to support and guide her as she strove to stamp her authority on the senate, to master the daily bureaucracy of running the city, and to organise the state funeral for her father. Her days had been distractingly full, her nights hollow and grief-filled, her empty home a stark reminder of her father's absence.

And now the funeral was over and the reality of her future as Lady of the City was beginning to sink in. This was her life now. Senate meetings, committees, political manoeuvrings, and a permanent escort. She hesitated only a moment, a brief second to steel herself, lifting her chin defiantly, before pushing open the double doors and walking confidently to take her seat on the raised dais. She was her father's daughter and she would not let him, or Vega, down.

She took the time to share a brief smile with Consul Thorn, surprised to find Michael not in the room. Although he did not generally involve himself overly in the day to day running of the city, since her father's death the archangel had attended every senate meeting. Rarely speaking unless his input were specifically called for, he stayed in the background, merely watching the proceedings, his presence alone a silent show of support for the new Lady of the City. But not today, it seemed.

She cleared her throat and waited for the hubbub of conversation to die down.

"Let's get started, shall we?" she suggested. "Senator Merrin, I believe you have a proposal regarding..."

"Actually, if I may interrupt..."

Claire fought to hide her irritation at Consul Whele's interruption. He had made no overt move against her yet but she knew without a doubt that he would seek to find a way to turn her father's death to his own advantage. Whele was far too experienced a politician to openly challenge her, not with her father's death so fresh, the city still mourning with her, but he had a way of twisting things, of phrasing even his insincere condolences in such a way as to subtly undermine her, to plant nagging doubts amongst the senate members as to her ability to lead. She was rapidly learning to hate the sound of his voice.

"My apologies, Lady Riesen, Senator Merrin, but I'm afraid I have some distressing news which I fear must take precedence over the tabled proposals today."

Whele had risen from his seat and, as he spoke, he walked carefully, still leaning a little on his cane, to the centre of the room. "Always has to be the centre of attention," Claire thought, uncharitably.

Standing straight – Claire had noticed that he could manage quite fine without the cane when it suited him to – Whele made the most of his moment in the spotlight, turning in a slow circle to make eye contact with each member of the senate, his face grave, his posture that of a man with portentous news to share.

"My fellow senators... my friends," Whele turned finally to face the dais, his attention squarely on Claire as he intoned, "It saddens me to have to announce that... that the archangel Michael has made the decision to leave Vega."

There was a brief moment of stunned silence before the room erupted in chaos, senate members talking over each other to express disbelief, to demand an explanation, to prophesy doom. And in the midst of the chaos, facing David Whele across the panicked senate room, Claire Riesen suddenly knew that this was the moment she had known would come – Whele was making his move against her.

"_What do you mean leave? You mean permanently?"_

"_But why?"_

"_Is he coming back?"_

"_Leave? For how long?"_

"_But what about the defences?"_

"_If Gabriel attacks..."_

"_But without Michael we don't stand a chance..."_

"_Why would he leave us?"_

The babble of voices was rising, the sense of panic in the room growing. Claire looked around at Becca Thorne, seated beside her, and saw on her face a mirror of her own shock and disbelief. Michael wouldn't just leave like this. Not now, not when the Chosen One...

But, of course, no-one else on the senate knew that the Chosen One had been found. No-one in the room, other than Claire, Becca and David, knew how impossible it was that Michael should choose to leave Vega right now.

Meanwhile Whele, his expression one of carefully schooled regret, stood back and watched panic engulf the senate. Claire didn't know what Whele's greater plan was, or what the truth behind Michael's apparent departure might be, but she was certain that her losing control of the panicked senate only played right into David Whele's hands. She put aside her own concern, and suspicions, at Michael's absence; she would find out the truth of this... but first she had to deal with Whele's machinations.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you please!" She raised her voice above the hubbub, calling the room to order. The clamour of voices slowly died down, senators who had risen to their feet settling uncertainly back into their seats.

Claire kept her focus on David Whele. "Consul Whele," she demanded, "Please explain."

Whele shrugged his shoulders helplessly, his expression artfully guileless. "I'm not sure I can," he admitted. "Michael came to me yesterday and told me he was leaving. I asked him why, how long for, but he wouldn't explain. He simply said that things had changed and he needed to leave."

Whele looked around the room with a show of concern. "I'm afraid I simply don't know if he ever plans to return."

"Why would he come to you?" Claire was a little shocked at the bitterness in Becca's voice. She knew that the two did not get along, that Consul Thorn shared her – and her father's – feelings on Whele's self-serving motivations, but Becca was a better politician than to let her feelings show like this.

"I'm sorry?" Whele expression showed only polite confusion but there was a glint of steel in his eye as he turned to address Becca Thorn.

"No offense, Consul, but it's no secret that you and Michael don't exactly get along," Becca pressed. "Why would he choose to inform you, and only you, of his sudden departure?"

Whele spread his hands in chagrin.

"I can't pretend to fathom the intentions of archangels, Consul. Perhaps in the... forgive me..." Whele cast a condescending look in Claire's direction, "... in the General's absence, he felt it appropriate to speak to me, as second Consul, rather than further burdening the Lady Riesen at such a difficult and... overwhelming time."

Claire's jaw clenched at the further, sly inference that running the city was too much for her to cope with. But Whele wasn't finished.

"Let's be honest," he asked, his gaze fixed firmly on Becca Thorn, "other than General Riesen, none of us were really particularly close to Michael, were we?"

There was something about the deliberate way he spoke that made Claire turn again to her First Consul, surprised to see Becca's face tight with ill-concealed anger... and grief. She turned back to Whele as he drove his point home, his words clearly intended to wound.

"How well do any of us really know him? He is a mystery to me as much as he is to you, Consul Thorn."

The look Becca Thorn levelled at David Whele spoke volumes to Claire. Clearly there was some subtext here that she was not privy to, something to do with Becca and Michael... and Whele. But beneath the hurt and the anger in Becca's eyes, there was something else, a sudden realisation, a dreadful suspicion. As though feeling Claire's gaze upon her, Becca turned to face her and the look on her face sent a chill through the Lady of the City.

Michael would never leave Vega - leave Alex - and he certainly wouldn't choose David Whele as the man to confide in before leaving. Claire knew it, Becca knew it and David Whele knew they knew it. But they couldn't explain that to the senate, not without exposing Alex as the Chosen One and throwing the entire city into chaos.

Consul Whele was lying through his teeth, in front of the entire senate, smug in the knowledge that there was nothing they could do to challenge him on it.

And if Whele was lying about Michael leaving Vega... then where _was_ Michael?


	3. Chapter 3

_Uhoh. Things are starting to get unpleasant for Michael in this chapter... ;)_

* * *

_"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles."_

The first attempt at securing the archangel was, to put it mildly, a spectacular failure. Whele had put a lot of thought and planning into this project and had chosen the location very carefully. The room he'd prepared was small – deliberately so. Small enough that there was not enough space for an angel to fully extend their wings, thereby limiting Michael's ability to use his most effective weapons. Stripped of his dual swords and chained to the wall, Whele had thought he had the archangel securely contained.

He'd miscalculated, however. It turned out that the archangel didn't need wings or blades to wreak havoc. He'd also massively underestimated Michael's strength. Within seconds of regaining consciousness the archangel had ripped the chains free of their moorings and launched himself at the three men guarding him, whipping a chain through the air to drop one man with a sickening crack of breaking bone before wrapping it around the throat of a second and efficiently throttling him.

The third man had managed to draw his weapon and get a shot off but it had gone wide as Michael had lunged for him and quickly snapped his neck with his bare hands.

Thankfully Whele had planned for the possibility that he might need to subdue Michael again and had armed his guards with dart guns loaded with the knockout drug his chemists had synthesised. Four guards had rushed the room, weapons drawn, firing as soon as they cleared the doorway. Michael had killed two of them before succumbing to the effects of multiple drug-loaded darts. A third guard was badly injured and not expected to survive.

It was a setback but only to be expected, really. This was a learning process. It was why he was doing this, after all - to discover the angels' strengths, their physical weaknesses, to learn how to fight them, how to hurt them. How to kill them. To learn what Michael should have been teaching them for the past 25 years; what he had instead chosen to hide from them.

And learn he had. When Michael awoke the second time, his wrists were securely manacled, the manacles bolted directly, and deeply, into the wall. No chains to snap, his arms angled out to the sides and rotated forward, denying him any leverage with which to pull free of his bonds. Not that the angel didn't try. Taking no chances, David Whele watched from the security of the adjoining room, a thick-paned viewing window separating him from the cell, as Michael began to stir, tension returning to his body, his head beginning to lift from where it had hung down towards his bare chest. Whele watched the muscles tense in Michael's shoulders and arms as the archangel immediately began to strain against his bonds, his head lifting to glare furiously at the three guards who stood well back, weapons drawn and aimed at the archangel, anxious not the share the fate of their predecessors.

Whele waited as the archangel surged to his feet, his face a grimace of effort as he pulled desperately against the manacles. He watched closely, seeing anger turn to frustration as the thick metal held. Only when he was reasonably confident that Michael was not bluffing, that he was securely restrained, did Whele enter the room himself.

Michael looked up as soon as the door opened, the archangel's usually impassive face twisting into a snarl of anger as David entered, his shoulders straining again as he sought to pull free from his bonds. Whele was actually a little impressed at the raw fury burning in Michael's eyes. The archangel usually maintained such a stoic, impassive facade, it was hard to know to what extent he even felt or understood emotion. Evidently his facade was just that; Michael's emotions ran as deep and as raw as any human. Another piece of information that could prove useful in the fight against the higher angels.

Whele watched with interest as the archangel, unable to break free and vent his anger physically on his captors, fought to control his emotions, forcibly calming his breathing, the fire of anger in his eyes turning cold and icy as he schooled his expression into an approximation of his usual impassive mask.

"What do you think to achieve by this, David?" Michael asked. His tone was disdainful yet threatening, an undercurrent of anger was still evident in his voice; he straightened as much as his bonds would allow, his eyes hard as he regarded David coldly.

"Interesting," thought Whele. "Even when at a clear disadvantage he still thinks he can control the situation." He smiled smoothly, his attitude relaxed and confident as he approached the archangel, the guards parting to let him through, repositioning themselves to maintain their line of fire.

"What do I think to achieve?" he repeated mildly. "Why, what I've always worked to achieve, Michael. To defeat Gabriel. To win the war." He looked the archangel straight in the eye and allowed his smile to drop. "To wipe out your kind once and for all."

"By keeping me prisoner?" Michael sneered. "By turning against the only ally you have, the only angel willing to fight for you? If it hadn't been for me, you would have been wiped out along with everyone else in the War of Extinction. I've done everything I can to protect humanity..."

"You've done everything you can to protect your fellow angels!" David snapped. "You've kept us ignorant. You've lied to us."

He gave a short laugh, letting his derision show. "Oh, you've helped us kill eight balls. You've taught us how to identify them and how to defend ourselves against them. You don't seem to have any problems with killing lower angels _and the human bodies they inhabit_. But now there's higher angels involved too. And you don't seem to be so keen to teach us how to kill them?"

Whele pointed an accusing finger at the archangel. "In fact, until events forced you to, you never even told us they existed!"

"The higher angels stayed neutral in the war," Michael insisted, the condescension in his voice making Whele bristle. "They posed no threat to you..."

"Only now, suddenly, they do. Don't they?" Whele interrupted. "And they're here, in the city, and you can't – or won't - even tell us where or how many of them there are."

"I told you," Michael growled, "I can no more tell a higher angel from a human than you can..."

"And I don't believe you," Whele stated simply. He raised his hand and made a brief gesture towards the viewing window, keeping his attention focused on Michael as, a moment later, the door behind him opened to admit two men.

Hands clasped behind his back, Whele drew himself up, his body language confident, assured. His words were calm and measured. "For too long," he intoned, "Vega has relied on the great Archangel Michael, our "benevolent benefactor" – a traitor who has already betrayed his own kind, his own _brother_ – for protection. We've become weak, complacent, mired in myth and superstition, waiting passively for salvation to come in the form of a celestial guardian... or a Chosen One." He laughed bitterly.

"Well, no more." He met Michael's gaze with calm conviction. "We will be our own saviours. We will defeat Gabriel and his armies. And to do that, we need to know how to defend ourselves, how to fight – and kill – higher angels, like Felicia. Like Gabriel. Like _you_. And seeing as you won't show us how... we'll find out for ourselves."

The two men who had entered the room moved up to stand beside him. The small space felt crowded now, the air stale and hot from too many people breathing the same enclosed quantity of air. The angel, pinned to the wall before them, outnumbered, at their mercy, should have appeared vulnerable, but instead he exuded a palpable sense of danger, like a lion preparing to pounce, hard eyes regarding them coldly.

Whele pressed his point home. "You're not a prisoner here, Michael. You're a test subject."

Comprehension dawned in Michael's eyes and his mouth twisted angrily. "The senate will never allow..."

"The senate will never know." Whele interrupted. "As far as they're concerned, you've abandoned us, left Vega for good."

"They'll never believe that." Michael's voice was flat, deadly.

Whele grinned widely. "They already do. I can be... very persuasive."

The guards tightened their firing stances as Michael snarled his anger, his shoulders trembling as he strained again at his bonds. Whele just smiled, pleased to have again broken through that veneer of calm.

He took a step back, allowing his chosen "experts" to move forward. Michael spared them not even a glance, his attention focused entirely on Whele, his eyes dark with anger. He met Michael's furious gaze squarely as he gave his men their orders. "Start with the knives. I want to see how quickly he heals."

He turned and walked away, knowing his apparent disinterest would add to the archangels fury. He wanted him angry. He wanted him exposed and vulnerable. He wanted to see what made him tick, what made him bleed... what made him die.

In the adjoining room, Whele poured himself a generous whiskey and, standing at the viewing window, watched impassively as the first cut was made.


	4. Chapter 4

This chapter is kinda short, but necessary to move the plot along. But fear not, am also posting Chapter 5 at the same time. :)

* * *

_"All warfare is based on deception."_

"_Gone_? What do you mean _gone_?!"

Alex's reaction was much the same as Claire and Becca's had been.

The senate session had gone on all morning, with Claire, with Becca's support, doing everything she could to calm and reassure the senate, to approve and assign committees to review and strengthen their defences in Michael's absence, and to combat Consul Whele's subtle attempts to sow further dissention and panic.

When the meeting had reluctantly broken up, Claire had been only half convinced that she'd done enough, but things were holding for the moment and she and Becca had known without any discussion what they needed to do next. They'd left the senate room together, walking briskly, heading straight for the security of Claire's apartments. As soon as they were out of earshot of the other senators, Claire had quietly asked one of her archangel corps escort to radio in and ask Alex Lannon to report immediately to her office.

He'd arrived quickly, his look of concern at her urgent summons turning to confusion when he found Consul Thorne also in attendance, and then to suspicion when they asked him to shut the door behind him, drawing him further into the room before sharing their news in lowered voices.

Alex was as shocked by the news of Michael's apparent departure as they were, and equally as certain that it wasn't true.

"No. He wouldn't just leave, not without telling me." He shook his head stubbornly, hands on his hips, his posture one of impatience and frustration.

"We know that, Alex." Claire placated. "_We_ know that, and _you_ know that, and Whele knows that. But the rest of the senate don't and they are believing Whele's story."

"How can they possibly believe that?" He turned to face her, his expression incredulous.

"Because Whele is a smooth bastard," Becca stated grimly. "The senate was already unsettled after Edward's death and Whele has made Michael's departure sound plausible."

Claire felt a momentary flush of gratitude that Becca didn't try and step around mentioning her father's death, or say his name only in hushed tones, or give her a sympathetic look. She was sick of people acting like she was made of glass and might shatter at the mention of her father's name. Right now Claire needed Becca's unspoken belief in her ability to cope much more than she needed unwarranted sympathy.

"The senate don't know the Chosen One has been found, Alex," Claire reminded him. "They have no reason to suspect that Whele would lie about something like this."

"I think we're getting away from the subject at hand," Becca interrupted. "How Whele has fooled the senate is not the issue here."

She looked from Claire to Alex, her expression grim. "The real question is; if he hasn't left as Whele says... then where _is_ Michael?"

Claire saw the concern play across Alex's face as the implications of that question sank in. Ever the soldier, he immediately began to break down and assess the situation.

"Well," he gestured loosely, "there's no way he'd leave Vega voluntarily so... was he forced to leave?"

Becca's mouth twisted derisively."Can you imagine anyone _forcing _Michael to do anything?"

Alex grimaced, "Good point."

He began to pace, a frown on his face as he followed the logic. "Tricked then?" he mused. "Fed false information so that he'd leave the city, looking for..." he gestured vaguely.

"Looking for what?" Claire asked.

"I dunno. Angel activity? Information about Gabriel?" Alex shrugged.

"And that information led him where? Into a trap?" Becca wondered.

"I can't imagine anyone managing to trap Michael, either." Alex mused.

"Which brings us to the most important point," Claire stated. "For David Whele to be confident enough to tell the senate that Michael has left the city... he's got to be certain that Michael is not coming back from wherever he is."

She shared a long look with her two compatriots as she stated the disturbing truth. "Which means whatever has happened, Whele is behind it. He knows where Michael is."


	5. Chapter 5

Okay so this is where things start to get kinda graphic. Don't say you weren't warned. Poor, poor Michael. I can't help it. He just whumps so well... ;)

* * *

_"In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity."_

After a good night's sleep, David Whele returned to Michael's cell feeling justifiably pleased with himself. Events were falling into place just as he had known they would; the senate was panicked, lacking strong leadership and looking for someone to fill the void. Claire Riesen, with the support of Becca Thorn, was doing what she could but it wasn't enough and she knew it. At best she'd delayed the inevitable, but before long the senate would look elsewhere for a firm, guiding hand; look to him.

He couldn't hold back a smile as he remembered the look on their faces in the senate chamber, the frustration born of knowing that he was lying but being unable to do a damn thing about it. To even challenge his story in front of the senate would have risked exposing the truth about the Chosen One, and that would have pushed the senate, and very quickly the entire city, even further into chaos. He held all the cards, and they knew it.

It was a calculated risk, to be certain, exposing his hand in such a way. But necessary, nonetheless. Michael's "departure" was the first carefully toppled domino that would begin an unstoppable cascade of events that would result in his taking control of the senate, and the city. The fact that Riesen and Thorn would know his story to be false was unavoidable but he was confident that the risk to his plans was minimal. There was nothing they could do. They might know he was lying but they had no way to prove it. To expose him to the senate would only precipitate the panic they were so desperate to avoid, and they wouldn't dare to make any kind of overt move against him. Claire Riesen might be Lady of the City and titular commander of the armed forces, but she would never dare to send troops against her own Second Consul.

David Whele liked to win. But even more, he liked his opponents to know they were beaten.

His expansive mood was only enhanced by the sight that met him as he entered the well-guarded chamber. His men had been busy as he'd slept and the results of their work were clear to see. Michael's bared torso was marked heavily with fresh and healing cuts and slashes, his skin mottled with red and brown where the flow of blood had dried and crusted, and then flowed anew.

The prisoner was anything but cowed, however. He stood defiantly, seemingly uncaring of his wounds, the twitch of muscles in his arms betraying his continued straining at his bonds. He stared down his torturers with a look that promised them an ugly death the instant he got loose. His head snapped around at the sound of the door opening and David smiled mockingly at the impotent fury that twisted Michael's mouth.

He walked forward confidently, his hands clasped behind his back, mirroring, not entirely unintentionally, Michael's usual self-assured pose. "Report," he kept his eyes on Michael as he spoke, meeting the murderous gaze calmly.

"We're using standard blades," Rickard, the elder of his two carefully selected "experts" and a veteran of the Extermination War, a man who'd killed many an angel in his time, hefted a bloodied knife in his hand to illustrate his point. "A variety of cuts to the torso and the same results each time; he heals incredibly quickly."

"How quickly?" He dropped his gaze to Michael's chest as Rickard used the point of the blade to point out a specific laceration.

"This one is only 10 minutes old and already you can see the bleeding has almost completely stopped..."

Blood was about the only thing David could see; Michael's skin was coated in it, crusted with it, fresh rivulets cutting track marks through dried and congealing blood. The smell of it was thick in the air, an iron tang that settled in the back of his throat, calling up unbidden, unwanted memories of screams and growls, the wet thwack of a hammer smashing bone and flesh, the sightless eyes of his wife, her throat torn and bloody...

He swallowed thickly, his good mood quickly evaporating, pushed aside by a familiar, cold anger.

"Clean him up," he interrupted. "I can't see a damn thing."

The other man, Forrester, had been a member of what used to be known as the elite force, a division of the armed forces tasked specifically with providing protection to the V6s. He'd been reprimanded on several occasions for using excessive force in carrying out his duties and when the elite force had been disbanded after protection duties had been reassigned to Michael's newly-formed archangel corps, Whele had hired the man to his private household staff. He'd proven to be a valuable asset in the years since, willing to do whatever he was asked without little regard for morality, or legality. At Whele's order, he stepped forward with a wet cloth and began scrubbing it roughly over Michael's chest. David looked up to find the archangel still glaring at him coldly, the fury in his eyes promising retribution. He met Michael's gaze calmly, years of experience at politics keeping the mask of cold indifference firmly in place over the anger that burned in his heart. Michael ignored Forrester, giving no reaction at all to the rough swabbing of the cloth over open and healing wounds, his eyes never leaving David's.

"You'll pay for this." The archangel's voice was low, quiet, oddly calm. Not a threat, but a promise.

Forrester paused briefly in his ministrations and, at that very moment, Michael moved, a silent snarl on his lips as he jerked his arms suddenly, his torso lunging forwards. The manacles held, pulling the angel up short, but Forrester jumped back nonetheless, his face white, the bloodied cloth falling from his hands as he fumbled for his weapon. David flinched too, unable to hide it, and saw in the curl of Michael's lip that he'd seen it.

Anger surged again and his voice was rough as he ordered Rickard, "Show me!"

Hesitation flickered for only a moment on Rickard's face before he resumed his mask of professionalism, leaning in to point again with his knife blade at a partially healed cut, the angry, reddened welt more visible now the layers of drying blood had been wiped away. "The wounds begin to heal almost..."

"Show. Me." David's voice was tight, cold, as he interrupted pointedly.

Rickard glanced at him, catching his meaning immediately, and nodded. "Yes, sir."

Shifting his grip on the knife, he stepped forward and laid the blade almost gently against Michael's ribcage, his motion practised and precise as he quickly sliced a deep cut along the contour of the angel's ribs, before stepping smartly back. Michael didn't utter a sound as the blade cut him, didn't move a muscle, his eyes locked on David's, his jaw clenched.

In a human, David might have found such stoicism impressive, but in the arrogant archangel it merely fuelled his anger and hatred, made him all the more determined that before he was through he'd find a way not only to make the archangel bleed, make him _die_, but to make him scream. He tore his gaze from Michael's to watch with interest as the flow of blood from the fresh wound began to slow almost immediately. He leaned in closer; the wound was fairly deep, skin tension pulling the edges apart to form an ugly, open gash. But even as he watched it seemed that the edges were beginning to slowly pull back together, the flow of blood becoming sluggish, the angry, open wound gradually but visibly beginning to heal.

It was fascinating, and terrifying. With such rapid healing, it was no wonder the higher angels were so hard to kill. It seemed almost impossible to do them any kind of serious damage. But David wasn't about to give up yet. He had many ideas to test out, knives were only the start; and they'd not yet tested the limits of the standard blade. Cuts and slashes, even deep ones, healed quickly. But knives could do more than just cut.

He straightened, looking Michael in the eye again. "Impressive," he acknowledged, an insincere smile playing at his lips. He turned casually to the table where Rickard and Forrester had laid out their tools, running his fingers absently over the array of knives laid out carefully on a tray. He selected one, hefting it in his palm, testing its weight and balance. Then, in a smooth motion, he gripped it tight and turned to drive it deep into Michael's shoulder, ramming it home until the hilt dug into the flesh just underneath the collar bone. The archangel grunted with the impact, but his jaw remained clenched, not a sound escaping his lips.

David leaned in close, looking Michael straight in the eye as he challenged coldly, "Let's see how quickly you can heal this." And with that he jerked the knife free, stepping back smoothly as blood spurted and began to flow thickly from the deep stab wound. Michael didn't say a word, though a muscle worked in his jaw and he breathed heavily, sucking in air in rapid gulps.

David allowed himself a smile. So the archangel does feel pain after all.

"Consul Whele."

"Yes, Rickard?" He kept his attention on Michael as he tossed the bloodied knife carelessly onto the table, feeling something of his earlier good mood reassert itself.

"We've had some other interesting results."

"Really?" He looked away reluctantly. "Such as?"

"Electricity." The stoic ex-soldier held up something that looked like a taser, only this one had thick cables trailing from it, cables that connected into a wall socket, hooking the appliance up directly to the city power supply, or rather, the independent power supply that Whele had set up for this room alone, fed directly from a separate generator housed within the building.

"It takes a lot of power, but electricity has the same effect on their muscles as it does on ours. We can induce a temporary paralysis, maybe even knock them out."

"Maybe?"

"Our initial tests have successfully induced paralysis," Forrester clarified. "We're theorising that a longer exposure may result in loss of consciousness."

David regarded Michael coldly. Though shackled and wounded, the archangel still maintained an aura of defiance, holding himself tall and taut, muscles still straining against his confinement, giving off a palpable sense of power... and danger. His arrogance, his stubborn refusal to acknowledge his powerlessness, grated on David's nerves. Even now, his wrists manacled, his torso marked with dozens of healing slashes, blood flowing freely from the deep stab wound, Michael remained defiant, regarding David with open scorn.

Well, he would show the angel just who held the power here. "So let's test your theory," he decided. He gave Michael a nasty smile. "No time like the present."

The taser sparked viciously as Rickard switched it on. He approached the archangel carefully, even cautiously, but Michael's attention was focused entirely on Whele. David stepped back, meeting Michael's furious gaze with a cold self-assurance, and watched dispassionately as Rickard pressed the weapon to Michael's chest. The effect was instantaneous; Michael's body tensed and shuddered, every muscle twitching and jerking, his neck cording as he gritted his teeth. The voltage was far higher than any human could stand and yet withstand it Michael did, his body shaking soundlessly for what felt like an eternity before, finally, his legs gave way under him and he slumped forwards onto his knees, his arms, held fast by the thick manacles, pulled awkwardly behind him..

His collapse caused Rickard to step back, breaking the contact with the taser. But it was clear to David that the archangel was only temporarily paralysed, as Forrester had explained, rather than unconscious. Even as he moved forward for a closer look, Michael was groaning lowly and struggling to raise his head. The angel looked up at David with that same infuriating defiance in his eyes and his refusal to be broken fuelled the fire of David's righteous anger.

Snatching the taser from Rickard's hand, he snarled, "I _said_, "Let's test your theory"!" and jabbed it sharply against Michael's chest, holding it firmly in place as the archangel jerked and twitched again, muscle contractions throwing his head back, his mouth opening in a silent howl. David was breathing heavily, anger-fuelled adrenalin coursing through him as he kept the taser in place, watching Michael tense and shudder for long, endless minutes, until finally his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, his body slumping forward in unconsciousness, his full weight hanging limply from his manacled wrists.

David let the taser drop and stepped back, tried to catch his breath, adrenalin still pushing his heart rate up. Michael's muscles still twitched sporadically even in unconsciousness, an after-effect of the vicious current, and David could see that the twing prongs of the taser had left angry burn marks on the skin of his chest. The strain of his unnatural posture, his arms pulled taut behind him, put further pressure on the deep wound under his collar bone and it bled with renewed vigour, rivulets of viscous red dripping down his chest.

Suddenly, as the rush of adrenalin faded, David felt weary. His victory over Michael felt hollow; the archangel's defiance was unbroken and they'd learned little of value here. Electricity could be used to incapacitate a higher angel but the high voltage and the length of contact required made it an impractical weapon; the knockout drug synthesised by his scientists remained a much more effective method. He tossed the taser onto the table with disgust.

He regarded the unconscious angel for a long moment, peripherally aware of his men awaiting his orders on where to go from here. He reached a decision. "Get some sleep," he ordered. "We'll pick this up again this evening." He didn't look up as they quietly left, leaving him to his thoughts.

After a moment he squared his shoulders, shaking off the disquieting sense of disappointment. Michael may have played him to draw, as it were, on this particular fight but he would make damn certain that he won the war. This was only the beginning, and there was much, much more to learn.

Turning on his heel, he turned his back on the bloodied and battered archangel and strode from the room.


End file.
